


though they go mad they shall be sane

by retorica



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Uncanny Valley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 06:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11007654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retorica/pseuds/retorica
Summary: 1x02 onward. The Delos Lottery allows two lucky common people to visit Westworld for free. Eileen could never afford the park otherwise. But what she finds inside may change her and others irreversibly.





	though they go mad they shall be sane

 

 

 _And death shall have no dominion._  
_Dead man naked they shall be one_  
_With the man in the wind and the west moon;_  
_When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,_  
_They shall have stars at elbow and foot;_  
_Though they go mad they shall be sane,_  
_Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;_  
_Though lovers be lost love shall not;_  
_And death shall have no dominion._

_\- dylan thomas_

* * *

She keeps hearing drums. As if a military parade were marching across her brains. But it’s just the vociferations, the chattering teeth, the natural vibrations of a room full of people. The restaurant is teeming with guests. She is sitting at the bar, nursing a dry martini, shifting from side to side because the crinoline makes it impossible to breathe. It’s stifling hot, too hot for a garment that closes up to her neck. She wishes she could slouch on the stool and scratch her bum, but that would confuse the hosts and make her look like a fool.

That’s one thing she really can’t swallow about this world. How can it be a fantasy if you still have to put up with the constraints of your gender? 

Well, she’s not paying for it, which is why they didn't give her much choice in the wardrobe department. She’s got the Lottery Pass in her purse. She keeps it with her everywhere she goes, in case someone might ask. They never do.

But her eyes are peeled open, absorbing everything with the hunger of the naive. This is her only chance to see the miracle of technology. She can’t fork up 40k a day; she’s still got college debt to pay off. She was one of the lucky two selected in the Delos Lottery. The other winner, a guy called Yordan, is already out on a mission in the Canyons with some hosts. They didn’t exchange many words when they both boarded the same train to town. She suspects Yordan doesn’t want to associate with her. They’re the only ordinary folks in a sea of opulence, and he doesn’t want to stand out. Eileen isn’t sure about herself. She knows that the rich can smell her out.

Even the bartender host is sizing her up with suspicion. She sits up straighter. “Can I please have I refill?”

Eileen knows he doesn’t approve of her sitting at the bar as a young lady. He pushes out his lower lips and picks up a bottle from the top shelf without commentary. She’d like to pick his brains. To ask him what it feels _like_. She’s no better than the rest of the guests. She’s fascinated by the hosts, but that’s not a _good_ thing. That’s a fetish, isn’t it?

She feels sweat running under her armpits. She savagely pulls some locks away from her face. This was a bad idea. The Lottery and everything. She doesn’t know if she has the stamina for this kind of experiment.  She read an article about it, about how Westworld could be a nightmare of moral relativity for anyone with a glimmer of self-awareness and that’s why it was better that only a small percentage could afford to see it. It was too taxing on the mind.

But no, this is a wonder. She’s witnessing a wonder. She must remember that. 

She tips the glass over and hopes the alcohol can uncoil the panic in her gut. Just then, she hears an altercation behind her. 

Someone gives a loud cry. Eileen turns her head.

Blood spills on white tablecloth.

She is on her feet before she knows what’s happening. Her mother was a nurse for twenty years and she feels her ghost inside her. An old man with a black eye-patch is screaming his heart out. He’s a host, she can tell by his weather-worn clothes. He’s been stabbed with a fork.

Her stomach contracts with nausea.

A young man sporting a black hat is grinning in satisfaction, wiping his mouth on a napkin. His companion, a white-hat, is shaken but unable to do anything but stare.

 “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?” she yells into their faces as she reaches their table. She clenches her teeth and grips the bloody fork still firmly lodged in the old man’s hand and pulls until her knuckles turn white. After three nerve-wracking attempts, she manages to get it out. More blood spurts on the floor and on her dress and by this point, other guests have turned to watch the event with mild curiosity.

Eileen lunges for one of the fresh napkins and makes a clumsy attempt to wrap it around the man’s hand as he keeps on moaning in pain. She doesn’t know what to do to stop the bleeding, and everyone around her is just fucking _staring_.

The black hat wrinkles his nose and steps away from the table. “Jesus, you’re making a mess. Just leave him there. They’ll take care of it.”

His tone of voice is dismissive of both her and the host.  She feels a sudden inexplicable hatred for this stranger. “Why would you do something so cruel?”

“I told him we weren’t interested in his bullshit,” the man shrugs, like it’s water under the bridge anyway.

“And you had to _stab_ him to get your point across? Are you that fucked-up or do you get a kick out of it?” she snarls, barely keeping her voice level.

The man narrows his eyes at her. His mouth curls into an ugly sneer. “I’d watch that mouth if I were you, sweetheart.”

“Or _what_? You’re going to stab me too?”

“Okay, let’s all calm down here,” the white hat intervenes in a conciliatory fashion. “My friend shouldn’t have acted so rashly –”

“ _No_ , fuck that. The old geezer had it coming and I’m glad I did it.”

“Logan,” his friend cautions in a weary voice.

The host has collapsed on the floor and his mechanisms have gone haywire. Eileen crouches over him.

 “You’re _glad_?” she echoes in disbelief. “What kind of person says that –”

“ _Please_. If you’re so scandalized by what you see, _darlin’_ ,” Logan mocks, rolling his eyes at her, “then maybe you shouldn’t have come here.”

He seizes on her momentary hesitation, the way her eyes flit to the floor.

“Oh my god, you’re a Lottery win, aren’t you? That’s why you’re so full of prissy middle-class morals.”

 _Well, that didn’t take long_ , she thinks grimly. Her hands are caked in blood. The host has shut down or _died_ , she can’t tell. She hates that she can’t tell.

“Did you hear that, William? She’s a Lottery win,” he cackles to his white-hat friend.

Eileen rises to her feet with as much dignity as she can muster. She picks up the bloody fork that was abandoned on the table and she throws it in his face.

Logan tries to duck, but it’s too late. His cheek is smeared with blood.

“You little bitch –”

He tries to grab her elbow, but she yanks free and runs past them out of the restaurant to the same drum-beat of whispers and vociferations.

She stops in the middle of the street, holding onto her stomach, trying not to throw up. Everywhere she looks, she sees the same synthetic characters, the same carefree guests.  And here she is, bedecked in blood on her first day.

She’s afraid the two assholes will come out and find her there so she makes a dash into an alley and leans her head against the wall, waiting for the nausea to fade.

Well, fuck.

 

 

 

William sits on the edge of the bed and listens to the torrid sounds of his friend debauching himself to dissolution in the adjacent room. It might be a threesome, a foursome, he’s lost count. He knows that Logan will only sate his appetite if he’s engaged in some twisted power-play. At least he’s honest about his desires. He rubs tired circles around his eyes. What does _he_ want? Is _he_ ever honest?

Clementine enters the room in a delicate petticoat, her curls tumbling down her back. Her beauty is breath-taking and William knows she could be completely his, if he should wish it. But he doesn't. Not like that. 

And this doesn't make him a good person. It might make him worse. Because he yearns for a connection without calculation. 

 

 

 

Logan is unencumbered with thoughts of autonomy and desire. He's chosen to simply feel. He knows what he's bought and shying away from the fact would be hypocrisy. He's been trying to teach William. _Personhood_   is overrated as fuck.  The only thing that matters is to not get bored, to not let your _identity_ \- whatever the fuck that is - stand in the way of your ultimate satisfaction. Why else stay alive?

He tells the girls to spit in his face and slap him hard as they ride his cock. He’s still got a bit of blood on his cheek. He finds that he likes it. 

That little _bitch_.

He’ll find her again and teach her her place. 


End file.
